For the Sake of the Children: The first Chloe Webster thriller (Chloe Webster Thrillers Book 1)

For the Sake of the Children

By

Alex Highcliffe

© 2015 Alex Highcliffe

All rights reserved

For G xx

The characters and events in this book are entirely fictional and any resemblance to real life people or events is purely coincidental.

The local authority and other agencies in Sheffield do fantastic work every day to protect the city’s children. In so far as this book suggests otherwise, it is entirely a work of fiction.

Chloe Webster Thrillers:

1 For the Sake of the Children

2 Family Divisions

Time is a great healer. Or so the saying goes. Loss, grief, sorrow, hurt; they ease as time goes by, fade to a distant memory. Maybe the same thing happens to fear. Scared for so long now, he’d become immune to it, resistant. It was still there of course, lurking in the depths of his mind, but it was normal now, ordinary, accepted. If anything, it had been replaced by regret.

If he could go back and do things differently he would, that was for sure, but then who wouldn’t? The first contact, the offer, the threats, the promises, he didn’t know how to handle them, didn’t even see them coming. Just a young guy, starting out on a new career, he was finding his way in the world. Had he been naïve? Yes, probably. Greedy? Maybe. Stupid? Certainly. But it was all so mixed up and complicated. He was swallowed up in it all before he knew what to do, before he could work it out, before he could bring it to an end. Bad disguised itself as good and he was fooled by it, didn’t know who he could trust. He’d fallen deeper and deeper into the abyss with no way of clawing his way out.

But whatever he’d done, he had limits. There was a line beyond which he refused to go, a boundary he simply wouldn’t cross. Some things were forbidden and his sense of conscience had undoubtedly caused him to end up in this place.

Kate appeared before him with her smile, her sense of humour, her energy and her warmth. They’d been together the whole time and although he’d managed to keep her out of it, she’d certainly suffered. His mood swings, the arguments, the mysterious behaviour and the lies all took their toll on her. She was aware that something was wrong, but he made sure she knew nothing that could drag her in with him. If there was one thing in his life that had to be kept honest and pure and true, it was Kate. He hated that he would never see her again.

And what of his parents? What would they think? That he’d run away, disappeared without even a goodbye? His father would get over it in time, but his mother? It would hit her hard. Would she ever recover from it? A lump appeared in his throat and try as he did to swallow it, he was incapable. Tears welled in his eyes and one made a slow mournful trail down his cheek before jumping to the floor.

He scanned the room, empty but for the remnants of old wall-mounted machinery and a scattering of wooden crates and boxes, leftovers of a busy workplace from yesteryear. The dull grey of the concrete walls forced his attention to the only thing of any interest - the large, rust-framed window set into the wall some way in front of him. The filth on the shattered glass could not mask the orange sun as it made its final bow behind the broken industrial landscape. For a moment he thought of the glorious Peak District in the distance beyond, and the time that he and Kate had spent enjoying its wonders. It was the contrast of Sheffield at its most splendid and its worst; a former industrial powerhouse set on the edge of one of nature’s finest creations.

The stillness brought him back to the room. It was quiet, silent in fact. Not a hint of traffic, or machinery, or even of life itself. How different this area must have been in its heyday, as people and their inventions worked noisily in tandem, manufacturing for the world. He looked down at his feet, at the small wooden crate on which he stood and shuffled awkwardly as his legs began to complain of the discomfort. He’d been standing there for several hours already. He wished he could take a step to relieve the aches, but knew any movement would be his last. A relentless itch had nestled itself somewhere near his shoulder and refused to leave him in peace. He wished he could reach it but the binding on his hands kept them firmly behind his back.

He wished for many things whilst he stood there through those desperate hours, but most of all he wished he could loosen the rope hanging from the ceiling that was knotted tightly around his neck.

A second tear traced a path down his face.

Chloe Webster looked at the Chloe Webster staring back at her from within the mirror. Was that really her? A smart, dark blue suit, white blouse, perfect makeup and her thick dark hair tied back in a way that said
confident professional
. It certainly didn’t look like the Chloe Webster she was
used
to seeing in the reflection on her bedroom wall. Not that she spent much time in front of the mirror. She had never been one for face paint or formal clothes. But now she looked professional and in control. Elegant even, and that was definitely not a word that anyone had ever used to describe Chloe Webster. She was actually rather clumsy by nature, due to her dyspraxia. If anyone asked, she explained that it was a kind of physical dyslexia, and that usually avoided the need to go into great detail. It wasn’t generally noticeable, but it had made her awful at sport when she was at school, and it surfaced from time to time to remind her of its presence, usually on the most important occasions. A trip here, a stumble there; she could never be confident that she was entirely in control of her own movements.

She was naturally attractive and her friendly, engaging manner meant she had always been popular; one of those lucky people who appeared as if they didn’t have to try. The truth was that she did have to try, as she was somewhat shy by nature, but she recognised it was important to make an effort, especially where people were concerned. And today was certainly a day that would require effort.

‘Morning love,’ grunted her father as she hurried into the kitchen. His bulk filled the wooden chair, his greying hair slightly ruffled after a troubled night’s sleep. He put his newspaper down and smiled warmly at his daughter. ‘You ready for today?’

‘I think so. Just wish the butterflies in my stomach would settle down, but you know me, always up for a challenge.’

He laughed. ‘Feeling a bit nervous, eh? Don’t worry, you’ll knock ‘em dead once you find your feet. You always do.’

Chloe filled a bowl with cornflakes and splashed milk over the top. Having poured herself a cup of tea from the pot she joined her father at the round pine table.

‘Yeah I know. Just first day nerves I guess. How is it today?’

‘Oh the usual.’ Her father rubbed his thigh and put on a fake grimace. ‘I’ll manage.’

‘If it’s painful you should go back to the doctor. You don’t have to suffer with it you know.’

‘I know, I know. I’ll give her a call later.’ He took a large mouthful of tea, then looked long and hard at his beautiful daughter as she ate her cornflakes. ‘Your mum would be proud you know. She always said you were a bright one. If only she could see you now.’ He immediately cleared his throat in an attempt to cover up the fact that his voice had broken as he spoke.

‘She
is
proud, dad. She’ll be with me today. And I’ll be thinking about her.’ She got up, walked round to her father and, crouching onto her knees, rested her head on his shoulder. ‘She’s with me every day. I can feel her presence.’ She’d seen the glint of a tear in her father’s eyes but knew him well enough to know that it was better to pretend that she hadn’t noticed. The first and only time she’d seen her father really cry was back when her mother died of cancer fifteen years ago. Chloe was only nine years old at the time, but she remembered that day like it was yesterday. Her father had taken many years to come to terms with his loss, with
their
loss, but he
had
come to terms with it, and moments like this were rare now.

‘Come on dad, let’s get cleared up. I’ve got a train to catch.’

Of course, no one did loosen the rope. It maintained its relentless grip through the dark, lonely hours of the night, its victim unable to move. His legs felt as if they would give way at any time, and he was beginning to think they’d left him here to die. He’d come close to losing his balance a couple of times as sleep had tried its best to overcome him, but he was still alive as the morning light filled the window in front of him.

His thoughts were interrupted by the rattling of keys and the metal on metal screech of an industrial folding door being pulled back reluctantly along its rusty track. Three men strolled into the room as if they were on a Sunday morning walk to church.

‘So this is him is it?’ The owner of the voice was the sort of person that would be described as a big man. Not overly tall, not overly muscular and not overly fat, but a big man all the same. The obvious quality of his suit, the shine of his shoes, and the way he carried himself left no doubt that he was important, that he commanded respect. He certainly had an imposing presence which instantly created an uneasy atmosphere in the room.

‘Yes Mr Drabble, he’s been here all night. Surprised he’s made it through to be honest.’ It was a strangely high pitched voice to come from such a large frame. Notably scruffy in appearance, this guy was surely what was known as a henchman. The third man, tall and slim and dressed smartly but casually, stood silently by the window, watching.

‘Well you’re fucking lucky he did make it through aren’t you?’ Mr Scruffy started at the sheer anger and power that erupted with those words. He must have experienced it before but he was obviously shaken by it. Mr Slim remained seemingly unaffected in the shadows. Drabble took a breath and looked at the man on the box. ‘I told you I needed to ask him some questions. Obviously, I need him alive for that.’

It seemed surreal, standing there looking down on these people. They were like characters from a gangster film. He felt so weak and yet his thumping heart gave him the feeling that it was about to break through his chest. He knew this was it. They’d used Drabble’s name after all. Not a name he’d heard over the last few months or so, but probably not the kind of man who wants people to know his name. He hadn’t batted an eyelid when the scruffy bloke had used it. That could only mean one thing.

‘So how much have you told the police lad?’ Drabble’s question was directed at him. ‘Just tell me what you told them and I’ll make it easy for you.’

He tried to speak but his throat clammed up in a desert-like dryness. He attempted to swallow but nothing happened.

‘Get him some water,’ ordered Drabble. Mr Scruffy immediately produced a bottle, pushed it into his mouth and tipped it upwards. The liquid poured out far too quickly and caused him to choke. Turning his head away he spat it onto the floor to allow himself to breathe. The water he did manage to swallow tasted like the finest wine.

‘I’ve never been to the police.’ His croaking voice was audible, but only just.

‘Don’t fucking lie to me, son.’

‘I’m not lying. I haven’t said anything.’

‘You fucked up big time.’

‘It wasn’t part of the deal.’ He coughed again as a dribble of water tried to find its way down his airway.

‘The deal was that you did what we said and in return we paid you well and we let you live.’

‘The deal was always about money, nothing else. That last one, that was crossing the line.’

‘We draw the fucking lines, not you. You just do as you’re told.’

‘I’m not going there. I’m not doing it.’

Drabble sighed. ‘You really don’t get this do you?
We
set the rules.
We
tell you what to do.
You
just do as you’re told.’

He’d had enough of this. He had no answers and he knew that whatever he said he was dead. He was tired, and weak, and he had nothing left to hold on to. He looked into Drabble’s soulless eyes and managed to muster the faintest of smiles.

‘Fuck you.’

Drabble stared back, completely unaffected by the words. He admired the lad’s spirit, but he was no use to him now; he was out of control. And control was what kept his world together. Someone who wasn’t under his control was dangerous, a risk.

He nodded to Mr Scruffy, who ran over and kicked the small wooden crate like a football, sending it crashing across the dusty floor. The man in the noose swung elegantly by the neck for a moment, and then began to thrash around violently; the only sound was the creaking of the rope.

It took several minutes of unimaginable suffering before the darkness finally brought him peace.